Flags
by writerofthelord
Summary: Weechesters fic. Sam and Dean are traveling with their dad on the road, hunting whatever they find. One day, Dean gets a brilliant idea that will put the Winchesters in hunting history books for years to come (well, a kid can dream, at least). The Winchesters will go all over the US, leaving their legacy wherever they go.


There were no flags in Flagstaff, Arizona.

None that the Winchesters could see, anyways. Really, they weren't looking. They sat in their Chevy Impala, slowly driving into the small city. Behind them was the desert. They'd been driving for hours. Their hair stuck to their foreheads, their clothes were soaked through with sweat.

John decided that he preferred working in the woods.

Fortunately, Flagstaff wasn't like the rest of Arizona. Pine trees lined the streets, there was a light drizzle, and people were actually wearing jackets.

Jackets, truly heaven-sent.

In every other town they'd gone through, the Winchesters' attire earned them strange looks. Flannel shirts, leather, hiking boots. And then, people saw their eyes. Tired eyes that saw everything, observed everything. Eyes that should never belong to young children, and yet, two small boys shared the same weary eyes as their father.

Flagstaff wasn't much different in that respect. Children weren't meant to have those eyes. But there were jackets, and that was good enough for John.

John was quickly learning that what was good enough for him was not good enough for Dean.

They'd visited Flagstaff twice before, and although the brothers always remained quiet and loyal, John often noticed something besides exhaustion in Dean's eyes. It was as if his son wasn't satisfied with the town, as if he expected to find something else. At first, John suspected that, after the desert, Dean wanted much more than some woods and mountains. He was probably hoping for a giant waterpark or the beach.

This time, though, his son's thoughts were finally revealed.

"Why the hell do they call it Flagstaff?"

Dean was sitting in the front seat, as he usually did. John had told him hundreds of times that he was too young to be up there, but the young hunter never listened. John had come to accept that, if his son was joining him on vampire hunts, then riding shotgun was the least of his worries. He still struggled to ignore his son's colorful vocabulary, though. "Language, Dean."

"Why the _heck _do they call it Flagstaff?"

John sighed, glancing at the boy out of the corner of his eye. Dean's feet were resting on the dashboard, and he was drumming a beat on his knees. Not even looking out the window. He really was tired of the town. "I don't know. Because that's what they wanted to call it."

"No, that's stupid."

"Excuse me?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on. I don't even see any flags around here. Never have." From the backseat, Sam opened his mouth to speak. Dean shot him down with a glare in the rearview mirror. "And no, Sam, there are no rock formations that are shaped like flags or a flagpole."

Sam was persistent. "Maybe there's a tree or something."

"No, Sam, there are no trees or something. There are literally no objects even vaguely resembling a flag, a flagpole, a flagstaff, nothing."

"Maybe it's symbolic. Maybe Flagstaff is supposed to be the flag, and the mountain it's on is supposed to be a pole, and it's supposed to represent a sign of hope and prosperity in a suffering land – the desert."

Dean slowly dropped his legs and turned around in his seat, staring at his brother with unblinking eyes. "Sam, you are eight years old and you've never gone to school. You should not be coming to those kinds of conclusions."

His younger brother blinked. "Why, are they bad?"

"No, just weird as shit."

"Dean!"

"Weird as _wendigos_."

Sam bowed his head in shame. "Oh. Sorry."

The family descended into silence, letting the woods roll by for a few blissful minutes. Eventually, Dean piped up again. "But seriously, the name -"

John turned on the radio, allowing the sound of Dolly Parton to fill the Impala. He and Sam grinned as Dean shrieked, slamming his hands over his ears.

* * *

The citizens of Flagstaff were being tormented by a werewolf and, as a result, John Winchester was out hunting and had left Sam and Dean in the motel room. Sam was satisfied with this – he hated hunting, but he liked seeing how each motel was different. Dean, on the other hand, was bored. He would've been happier with his dad – werewolves were his favorite creatures – but John had insisted that he needed to watch Sam. It wasn't that the boy minded his younger brother. He loved Sam, maybe even more than John. But he really, really loved werewolves.

Determined to enjoy his time in town, no matter how ridiculous its name was, Dean had pulled out his dad's old rifle and tugged on his leather jacket. Sam sat on the floor with a pile of legos and watched as his brother descended into madness."Seriously, Sammy, just get down on all fours and run around. I promise I won't actually shoot you."

"But I don't want to be a werewolf."

Dean stepped closer, swinging the gun for emphasis. "Please? It'll be fun."

Sam crawled backwards, eying the rifle cautiously. "Um, Dean, I don't think Dad wants us playing with that."

Scoffing, Dean turned the rifle away from his brother. "Oh, come on, it's not even loaded."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just watch."

Dean pointed the gun at the window and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, loud and clear, and a large crack appeared in the window. Pieces of glass crumbled away and fell to the floor. Outside, people screamed and scattered for cover.

"Uh, nevermind," Dean said, lowering the gun to the floor and kicking it under his bed. "Okay, new game. Your choice, Sammy."

Sam ignored his older brother, deciding to return to the legos he'd been playing with earlier. Glaring at him, Dean moved forward, only to yelp when he stepped on one of the plastic toys. He'd been trying to convince his father for years that legos would be more efficient weapons than any of the knives they used.

"Are you okay?"

Dean glanced at his brother and sighed, noticing the sympathetic look on his face. Damn puppy eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Come here, you brat." He gathered the boy up into his arms, carrying him over to their shared bed. "No more legos, though. You got anything else, something non-dangerous, preferably?"

Nodding, Sam reached into his backpack. "Yeah, if you don't consider paper cuts dangerous." He pulled out a few papers and crayons, spreading them out on the comforter.

"Seriously, drawing? Of all the things to do in your free time, you choose to color? Come on, I thought I raised you to be a man."

Sam glanced at his brother, unamused. "It's not like there's anything else to do, 're the one who said Flagstaff was a stupid town."

"No, I said it had a stupid _name_. Which is true. I told you before and I'll tell you again, there are no flags in -" He stopped, then, eyes widening in awe. "Wait a second, that's it! We'll make flags."

"What?"

"Flags, Sam. Winchester flags. We'll draw them out and then we'll put them up in town. In fact, we can put them up in every place we go! Mark our territory, build our legacy. We'll be heroes. Saving Flagstaff from werewolves and the embarrassment of a meaningless name."

Sam watched Dean flit about the room, gathering materials and occasionally ordering Sam to hand him a crayon. He obliged, deciding that he might as well. He could only hope that the flags would make up for the broken window.


End file.
